


A Universe of Moths

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Depressed Dean, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s08e01 We Need to Talk About Kevin, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adjusting to life after Purgatory is more difficult than Dean anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Universe of Moths

Dean’s spent most of the day lying on the bed, watching TV and pulling at threads on the cheap motel comforter. He’s built a nest of cotton on the small table next to the bed. It’s empty, the imaginary birds that might have lived there burnt away by fluorescent light, just a mess of crinkled brown threads shot through with strands of bright reddish-orange. 

The colour reminds him of the sticky clay soil from a hunt down in Piedmont. If Dean concentrates he can still smell it: the waft of something swampy and rotten, like the earth itself had been contaminated with psychic bacteria. 

They’d been after the bones of a local farmer who’d started spookin’ on cattle for obscure reasons Dean had never quite grasped. Something about a water licence dispute, maybe. John had grown more and more frustrated as cemetery dirt clung to his shovel, refusing to be dislodged. He’d started by scraping the blade against a headstone but quickly progressed to tapping, then wild, half-controlled swings. A clump had finally broken free only to fly upwards with a wet splatter across his face.

“Dude!” Dean had exclaimed, eyes wide. His shoulders had started shaking. 

John had glared back, looking pissed, before relaxing into a crooked smile. And then suddenly they’d both been laughing, bent almost double in the mud and the rain. 

The whole case had been pretty dumb was the truth of it, but they’d owed someone a favour, the way people without money did, nothing left to exchange but themselves. And a job was a job. Throw in some free, home cooked food and for a week they’d been nearly golden. Not long after John had stumbled across another lead, free fallen back into obsession, and there hadn’t been a whole lot of fun after that.

Dean gets it. These days he’s all about the hunt, wants it so badly he can almost taste the blood fizzing between his teeth like iron sherbet. Mostly. It’s just that some mornings he’s…whatever.

Today it’s whatever.

He blinks at the TV. There’s a cooking show playing, he thinks it might be some kind of competition. The contestants are all young and shiny, crowding around the celebrity chef like baby birds scared of starvation. The chef’s long nails are painted candy pink. He wonders if bits of food get trapped beneath them, the tips of her fingers slowly rotting away no matter how hard she tries to scrub them clean.

Sam’s hiding in the kitchenette, talking to someone on the phone. Dean catches fragments of conversation but for the most part it’s all hushed, urgent whispers that ebb and flow against empty silence, the percussive beat of oversized boots scuffing against the tiled floor. 

It’s probably that woman Sam shacked up with while he was gone. Ruby. No, that was the last time. Amanda? Amelia? Oh yeah, that one rings a bell. Kinda.

Tomorrow, Dean thinks, he’ll wake up and care again. He’ll pick at Sam until they’re both tender and sore, heads aching with the shared buzz of emotional static. But right now? Not so much. Feelings are something best left to that other Dean, the one who’s always angry and gets out of bed. Besides, his tomorrow might stroke out at two minutes to midnight and never quite happen. He probably won’t be that lucky, but…

There’s a burst of applause. Dean closes his eyes and lets the noise wash over him, before opening them and pressing a button on the remote, changing the channel. An endless series of numbers scroll across the screen, financial reports that prophesise a different type of Armageddon. He closes his eyes again and lets himself drift, remembers Sam dressed in a pristine white suit and the sickeningly sweet smell of red roses.

He sits up when Sam walks into the room and throws a cell phone onto the table; tries to disguise that the only thing holding him upright are a couple of flattened pillows squashed against garish wallpaper. 

Dean catches Sam's gaze and then swallows, focuses on looking somewhere else. 

“What are we doing?” Sam asks evenly.

Dean groans under his breath. “Give it a rest, Sam.” He knuckles his right eye, trying to clear away the grit. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Yeah, that’s all it is.

“No,” Sam says. He runs an impatient hand through his hair. “I didn’t leave everything behind just to hole up in some dump while you watch crappy re-runs. You want to track Kevin down? Fair enough. Like you said, he’s our responsibility. But I had a _life_ there, Dean, and this isn’t -”

“What’s your problem?” Dean says flatly, trying for belligerence and falling short. But since attack is always the best form of defence, he falls back on the training and gives it another go. “You wanted me to get some sleep, so that’s what I’m trying to do. Or, what? It’s fine when you decide to ditch the business and go play Suzy Homemaker, but the rest of us just gotta keep on going? Not like things are gonna get much worse if we take a day to regroup.” 

A muscle next to Sam’s mouth jumps. 

Dean watches Sam’s fingers clench, relax, and curl into his fists again, feels something inside him crackle to life at the tell. His brother may not always like to admit it, but he’s a damn good fighter. Real smart with it too, the same way he is with everything else. Except when he’s not. And if Sam gets wound up enough about something, then… 

Doesn’t happen often, but hell yeah, it’s just what Dean needs right now. 

He stands up, ignoring the sudden head rush, and walks purposefully towards Sam; rolls his shoulders and tilts his chin upwards in anticipation of the blow he hopes is coming. 

_C’mon Sammy, let’s go a round or two. Know you want to. Wake me up for a bit, it’ll make everything better._

He raises an eyebrow. “At least you didn’t fuck a demon this time.”

The first hit still takes him by surprise, rocks his head backwards and fills the stained plaster ceiling with bright, pretty stars. Pain follows a little later, stuck on the usual time delay, but by then he’s already connected a boot to Sam’s knee and sent his brother crashing to the ground. 

He follows Sam down when a giant hand shoots out, too fast to follow, tightens around his leg and yanks. Sam lands a series of punches that make his ribs groan and drive the air from his lungs. It’s all good, though, because Dean slams his elbow up into Sam’s stomach. He dials it down a bit – doesn’t really want to hurt the kid, that’s not the point - but still uses enough force that he has Sam gasping for breath, almost gagging. 

Somehow Dean finds himself pinned to the ground, Sam’s arms wrapped around him like a vice. He growls and keeps struggling, unwilling to give up more than he has to. Sam doesn’t speak, just holds him in place until Dean finally surrenders and goes limp, face pressed into the worn carpet.

The television’s still playing.

After a while Sam climbs to his feet and walks away, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him.

Dean takes a breath and pushes onto his knees, arms trembling in protest. He crawls towards the nearest bed and props himself against it, legs stretched out across the floor. The adrenaline is burning away faster than he’d hoped, almost completely gone now, but pain’s not a bad substitute in a pinch. He’s certain that without it he’ll disappear, become one of those blurred, black and white photos they used to print on the side of milk cartons, a lost thing destined to end up in the trash.

Dean flinches when a wet cloth hits his face. He squints up at Sam through the eye that’s not swollen shut; takes in the purpling bruise along his brother’s jaw, the split through his eyebrow.

“Clean yourself up,” Sam says. He walks towards the scratched table, trying to disguise a limp, and opens the laptop. The cut above his eye is still bleeding sluggishly, oozing past a crooked butterfly strip. Sam wipes it with the back of his hand, doesn’t succeed in doing much more than painting a scarlet mural down the side of his face. “Four days.”

Dean blinks and mouths at the word, trying to hold it in place. “What?” 

Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the screen. “We’ve been here four days.”

Dean shakes his head and wishes he hadn’t when the walls start tilting sideways. That can’t be right. They checked in Tuesday night, so – 

He leans over and spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor, shoves down the panic that’s twisting its way through his belly. It’s all spinning out of control. The world changes too fast here, there’s so much useless _stuff_ to keep track of, he can’t keep up. 

He rests his head against the edge of the bed and concentrates on taking slow, shallow breaths, one arm braced against his side. There’s a large black moth darting back and forth across the ceiling, trying to batter itself to death against the exposed light bulb. He watches it lazily.

Purgatory was full of moths. They covered the trees in a carpet of living shadows, floating out of the undergrowth only to disappear seconds later. Dean had caught one once, trapped it inside his cupped hands and found himself almost smiling as frantic wings tickled the skin of his palms. 

He’d named it Rocky.

Stupid thing hadn’t made it through the night, stopped moving long before the weak, morning light filtered its way past an endless stretch of deformed trees. Dean had placed the brittle body beneath a fallen branch and told himself it didn’t matter, that there would always be more.

He startles when hands slide their way beneath his armpits, tries to bat them away even if it’s a protest that’s mostly for show. “Don’t,” he says automatically. “I’m fine. Just gonna stay here for a bit.”

Sam huffs. “Yeah, whatever. On the count of three.”

Dean braces himself, feels his body being hauled upright and manoeuvred towards the bed. He grunts as the room swirls and pain flares to life down his side, sharp and biting. It’s not a comfort any more, just leaves him feeling confused and sick. He drops onto the sagging mattress with a sense of relief, distantly aware of Sam unlacing his boots and draping a thin, scratchy blanket over him. He runs shaky fingers over it, starts a new search for loose threads.

A metal wastebasket clangs as it’s set down nearby.

He clears his throat, focuses real hard on getting the words right. “Hey, um, what’s a group of moths called?”

“A universe,” Sam says shortly. “A universe of moths.” His eyes narrow, a flash of curiosity moving across his face. “Why?” 

Dean stares for at Sam for a long moment, then squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden prickle of tears. “No reason,” he mutters. “Just wondered.”


End file.
